


Any Way You Want It

by EnderBerlyn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Crossdressing, Face Slapping, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Rimming, S11E18 Coda, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 14:21:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6523675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnderBerlyn/pseuds/EnderBerlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are times Dean just wants to get slapped during sex by a girl in a Zorro mask. Sometimes, that girl turns out to be Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any Way You Want It

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my awesome beta, [Astrid_B_Caine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Astrid_B_Caine/pseuds/Astrid_B_Caine)!

_We are so very, very screwed,_ Dean thinks as he pours himself an extra finger. His bones still ache from Lucifer slamming him into that church pew, and the stack of files sitting across the table from him holds little more than the promise of a migraine. He’s not –

_Jesus, fuck._

Whiskey splashes over the rim of his tumbler and stains the leather of the volume he’d been about to crack open. It’s some priceless first edition something-or-other he can’t quite bring himself to give a shit about right now. Not with Sam looming in the doorway like that.

All of it – Amara, Lucifer, the goddamn bourbon-soaked book – just disappear. His brother occupies every last space his blood-deprived brain has to offer, fills in all Dean’s little nooks and crannies just like he does the passenger seat of the Impala.

Silver sparkles off the fasteners of Sam's waist cincher as he traces a finger across his ribs where shadowed skin meets darker fabric. Dean manages to hold onto his glass until Sam steps into the library. It hits the table with a thud and a splash as the shadows pull back, revealing the full force of nature that is his brother.

Christ, he has to duck just to get through the doorway.

Dean’s eyes sweep down his body and lock on the patent leather boots that give Sam another six inches of height to lord over him. Light dances across the buckles and Dean can barely force himself to look away. Wouldn’t bother, but bright flashes of silver are still winking at him from the waist cincher.

He forgets his fascination with the boots – corset, too – when the purple plaid skirt just barely covering Sam’s dick hijacks his attention.

He pulls in a shuddering breath and tries to swallow. His throat trips over itself, clumsy and uncooperative, but his mouth marches to the beat of a different drum and threatens to send drool cascading down his chin at any moment.

Dean looks up and up, admires the perfect hourglass figure the corset – fuck, it’s leather – has given his brother, and blanks out when he gets to the thick strip of black fabric covering the top half of Sam’s face.

He’s busy wondering how he had missed the fucking _Zorro mask,_ when the scrape of his chair behind him nearly gives him a heart attack.

If Sam wasn’t already aware of how much this little charade was revving Dean’s engine, he sure as shit knows now. Christ, he didn’t even realize he stood up. He wears the surprise of it as obviously as Sam wears that calculating smirk. Whatever embarrassment Sammy may have felt earlier is long gone by now. The power he holds over Dean flows from him with every little sway of his hips.

Sam hitches his skirt up a little more, _knowing_ what it does to Dean and the bastard loves every second of it. He runs a wandering hand over his own cock, pulls at it gently for a moment while Dean just stands there and stares like a slack-jawed idiot. Sam’s face splits into a grin – calm and predatory and oh, so full of promise – before he gives the couch a quick jerk of his chin.

“Naked. On the couch,” he says and goes back to stroking himself. “Hang your head over the armrest.”

Dean does his best to comply, but his stomach is too busy trying to fall out his ass for his hands to do much more than argue with his belt buckle.

Sam towers over him, blocking out his vision like the moon sometimes blocks out the sun, his giant hand a vice on his chin and stubble grating against Dean’s jaw. “Take off your goddamn pants, Dean. Now.”

He licks a wet stripe up Dean’s cheek like he owns him (he does) and –

It’s.

Not.

Helping.

Sam’s low chuckle reverberates through him like the first distant rumble of a thunderstorm, and the light pat to Dean’s cheek drips with dark possibility.

Dean’s hands haven’t shaken this badly since he first agreed to let Sam stick it up his ass. Hellhounds bayed in the distance and each passing second brought him so much closer to their jaws. He couldn’t get his goddamned pants off then, either. Sammy ended up having to do it while Dean shivered, useless against his chest.

Relief washes through him when he finally wins the war with his belt. The rest of his clothes follow with somewhat less difficulty, and (not) soon enough he’s stretched out on the couch like his brother ordered.

“Good boy, Dean.” Sam says and rewards him with a gentle caress. He’s back in character in a second, hiking up his skirt and lowering himself over Dean’s face. “Now fucking eat me.”

Dean’s throat still refuses to work right – the defective piece of shit won’t even make words now – but the saliva issue has moved firmly into the ‘plus’ column. Fuck that ‘little kitten licks around his rim’ bullshit that Chuck’s fanfic writers are always going on about. (Yeah, he reads that crap. So what?).

 Anyway, Dean eats Sam’s ass like he eats everything else: sloppy and with unabashed glee. And he’s damn proud of it. He wouldn’t go so far as to hang up fliers or anything, but the self-satisfied smirk he wears every time he pulls away with a wet smack makes it perfectly clear to his brother where he stands on the matter.

Speaking of Sam, he’s got a good grip on Dean’s head and he’s riding his face like he sometimes rides Dean’s cock. The underside of his dick thumps Dean in the forehead with every bounce. It’s damn distracting but Sam’s balls are heavy where they rest over his eye and his nose is tucked up behind them and Sammy smells like sunlight on a summer day and Dean cannot. Get. Enough.

He opens wider and works his tongue in as deep as he can, gets rewarded when Sam stops bouncing and starts grinding. The annoying thumping has stopped, but now Dean’s forced to wonder if Sammy might actually break his nose with his taint. He pushes the discomfort aside and focuses on the smut pouring out of his brother’s mouth. Nothing gets Sammy spewing filth like a tongue up his ass.

 _Fuck_ , Dean thinks and goes back to focusing on his nose. If Sammy doesn’t stop soon – the grinding or the talking, he doesn’t really care – Dean’s going to either break or come. He has no idea which one.

He’s about to find-the-fuck-out when the nearly unbearable pressure vanishes. He finds himself thinking about how far he’d be willing to go to get it back. Sam’s still talking, but the breathy rain of trash has stopped and his tone has taken on an authoritative edge. It weirds Dean out how much Sam sounds like their father while his skirt is rucked up over his massive erection. But Sam’s pawing at his arms and _oh_ –

 _Okay_.

He can totally get off the couch now.

 _Sure, Sammy. Not a problem_.

Except it _is_ a problem. Sam curses him under his breath – something about useless, fucked-stupid cocksluts – as he hauls Dean off the couch and drops him face down on the table. The jolt wakes up his brain enough to admire the honeyed grain of its wood. He always has liked the library –

_Ow!_

Dean looks over his shoulder with an incredulous glare – _What the fuck was that for? –_ and tries to rub the sting out of his asscheek. His fingers are – sticky? – and he just ends up spreading whatever crap is on his hand around on his ass, too.

“I _said_ , stick your goddamn fingers up your ass, Dean, or I’m going to fuck you like this.”

Dean brings his hand up to his face and examines the viscous fluid dripping down his fingers and palm. _Lube? When the fuck –_

_Ow!_

The lube he accidentally smeared all over himself has created a buffer, and Sam’s hand skitters off to the side just like his six-year-old self did the first time Dean took him to an ice rink. Dean has the presence of mind to smirk, though it’s more gut reaction than anything if we’re being completely honest. _That’ll teach you, you pushy little –_

“Ow! Goddamn it, Sam!” he whines and moves to rub the bloom of pain out of his other cheek. The look on Sam’s face makes him stop short and reverse course, reaching back with his lubed hand instead.

“That’s it, Dean. Good boy,” Sam purrs as he uses one giant hand to simultaneously rub the sting out of his latest blow and spread Dean open at the same time. He helps guide Dean’s fingers to his hole without making more of a mess, and grabs Dean’s other cheek to give himself an unobstructed view as Dean sinks them in one at a time.

Fuck, it feels incredible. It doesn’t take long for his embarrassment to fade. He still has no idea what Sam’s obsession with his asshole is all about, but he can usually ignore it after a while. He starts rocking back onto his hand as he works his ring finger in beside the other two. Sam hums his approval and keeps right on staring as he traces his thumb around the place Dean is stuffing himself full. Dean’s cock jerks and starts drooling on the table as he imagines his brother forcing that thick thumb in with the rest of his fingers. Fuck, he wants more.

He’s moaning into his shoulder like a whore and fucking himself open three inches from Sam’s nose – or at least he thinks he is – when he feels the blunt head of Sam’s cock trying to shove its way in with his fingers. The fantasy puts the one about Sammy’s thumb to shame, and Dean considers keeping his hand where it is to see if his brother will push in anyway. The more rational side of his brain stirs just enough to remind him there’s no way in hell they’ll be able to cram all that in there.

Another sharp spank to his ass has him yanking his fingers free. Sam mutters, “Better,” before shoving the wide head of his cock in to take their place. God, he’s fucking huge and it hurts so good. Sam works his way in slower after that initial assault and fucks Dean open like a pro. He always did know just how to dance that razor line between too much and not enough.

He feels his body making room for his brother while he has his fist wrapped up in the fabric of Sammy’s skirt, urging him deeper, when Sam suddenly pulls out and leaves him aching. Dean is trying to figure out how to bitch about it – his stupid throat is on the fritz again and won’t let out anything more than the occasional choked off, violently unattractive gurgle – when Sam wraps his arms around him and pulls him off the table.

 _Yeah, sure. We can change it up, Sammy_. “Guh, uh-uh glgg.”

_Whatever. Close enough._

Sam turns him around and pushes him back against the table, and Dean doesn’t have to be told twice. He lays back – limbs blissfully cooperative for a change – and spreads his legs as wide as he can. A slightly less disgusting grunt breaks past the barrier in his throat as Sam thrusts back in. He spares a moment to offer up a prayer that Sam is too busy staring at his asshole again to notice all the ridiculous noises he’s making before he surrenders to the driving rhythm of his brother’s hips.

The calloused hand on his face draws him out of the trance Sam’s thrusts have lured him into. His eyes snap open and lock onto his brother’s, strangely vibrant as they’re highlighted by the black mask. He smells like leather and sin as he traces his thumb across Dean’s stubble in one last check to make sure Dean really wants this.

Fuck, he _does_. He wants it almost as much as he wants Amara shoved back into whatever dark hole she crawled out of. Of course, he can’t _tell_ Sam as much, so he tips his face into his brother’s hand instead. It’s subtle, but it gives Sammy the permission he needs and Dean stays trapped in his eyes as he braces for impact.

The slap rings hollow and pathetic, barely more than a pat on the cheek. It’s like his big, buff brother has _actually_ turned into a girl, some little wisp of a thing that wants to get him off but is too afraid of hurting him to be even remotely successful.

His disappointment must show on his face – lord knows it isn’t coming out his mouth – because Sam’s evil half-smile cuts his face in two. It’s so very like the one that haunts his dreams from those days when little Sammy had no soul and liked to amuse himself by feeding Dean to vampires.

 _Oh, shit_ , Dean thinks right before the slap rocks his head to the side and Sam slams his cock in as hard as he can.

 _I’m gonna come_ , Dean knows as the burn lights up his cheek and his insides twist with the aftershocks of Sam’s brutal thrust.

Heat blazes through him as Sam connects with the other side of his face and slams home again. His muscles lock down and his throat decides now is a _great_ time to come back from its smoke break. Sharp slaps rain down as Sam hammers into him, again and again. Dean’s got one hand on his cock and is midway through the best orgasm of his life when he realizes that deep, roaring shriek that’s been irritating the fuck out of him is _coming_ from him.

 _Jesus Christ, he turned me into a screamer_ , Dean thinks for one absurd moment before his brain short circuits again. For all he knows, it shot out his dick right along with the rest of him.

Sam’s biting at his mouth and shuddering out his orgasm as the ghost of Dean's own echoes through his ears. Dean lies still under the crushing weight of his brother and waits for their breathing to calm, while his systems slowly click back online. He breathes his brother in, and pets Sammy’s back whenever he can muster the strength.

When Sam eventually rolls to the side and moves to pull the mask off, Dean’s hand shoots out to stop him. His voice is little more than tattered remains. “Leave it on.”


End file.
